


but i can't move the mountains for you

by winterwinds



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Future Fic, POV Second Person, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-25
Updated: 2012-04-25
Packaged: 2017-11-04 07:41:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/391408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winterwinds/pseuds/winterwinds
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She hasn't heard you, seems to be lost in her own thoughts, thoughts you can almost touch with your mind - thoughts consisting of <em>Winterfell, Winterfell, Winterfell</em>, a song of a past long gone replaying in her mind in an endless loop.</p>
            </blockquote>





	but i can't move the mountains for you

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt _Gendry accidentally walks on Arya having a bath_ by psyanidemilk at tumblr. This strayed a bit from the prompt, but either way, here it is. Story title from the song Timshel by Mumford and Sons, which was the song I was listening to while writing this. Characters and places belong to George R.R. Martin.

**I**. You hadn't meant to come across her, to intrude (no matter how hidden you remained), not here, in a place you knew she considered to be _home_.

The sun of false spring shines brightly through the red canopy of the weirwood; the strays of light reflecting on the surface of the pond. The red leaves are a stark contrast to the bare trees surrounding the old wood, colour in a gray world.

She hasn't heard you, seems to be lost in her own thoughts, thoughts you can almost touch with your mind - thoughts consisting of _Winterfell, Winterfell, Winterfell_ , a song of a past long gone replaying in her mind in an endless loop.

Her body is turned away from you; she seems to be washing her hair, her back visible from where you stand, muscled and scarred. You know you shouldn't be here, know you should walk away, let her be, especially at a moment as intimate and private as this, but you're unable to move, stand entranced by her, quite immovable.

She is causing ripples in the water, the sun hitting her hair in a way that brings forth the copper in it and you notice it immediately. You can imagine her face; gray eyes a melted steel, her features soft, at peace. You want to share this part of her, want to know everything she is and ever was, feel a second like maybe you don't know her at all, never have.

You feel foolish, feel like a love-stricken boy (and you're no boy, haven't been in a long, long time and you realize you're getting old). You lower your gaze, feel warm at the lust you feel for her. Her arms are spread now, fingertips barely touching the surface, and she raises her head toward the sky, her hair dripping into the water. And every sensible nerve in you tell you to go, walk away, leave her to _her_ home, to the wild north; tell you to go south, find a southron woman to settle down with, but you know that there is no way to go back, not now that she's alive, instead of a ghost in your memory. You realize you love her then; in a moment that is hers and hers only, a moment you've stolen. To cherish, if ever the gods decide to set you on two different paths again.

The sun is setting and you notice by the way her shoulders are hunched, arms across her chest, that she's cold.

She brings herself out of the water in a swift move, her naked, lithe body glistening in the stubborn strays of sunlight through the leaves of the wood she prays to. You think she'll kill you if she ever finds out you'd been staring at her. You'll laugh, feel your neck go warm at the confrontation, tell her she's beautiful; and you'll kiss her (if she doesn't kiss you first).

You walk away, hate it for a brief moment that she is who she is ( _lady, highborn_ ); a lady on her way home; and you ask yourself Where am _I_ going? You want to run, want to leave everything behind, the years, the mourning, _Arya, Arya, Arya_ , the name a curse upon your lips.

 **II**. That night, out of nowhere (or maybe she knows more than you give her credit for), she sneaks into your room; you don't notice her until she raises the covers and the cold seeps in. You say nothing, scoot over and she makes herself comfortable beside you - the feeling new and perfectly so - and she surprises you, places a tentative hand upon your bare chest. You want to ask her what she's doing - _why_ \- but instead you grab her hand and the warmth of her body soothes you. You say, "Let's sleep," because you're tired, and she is too and there's a long journey ahead of you.

She is all temper and bad manners; all secrets and stories and memories; and all she has is you.

Just as all you have is her.


End file.
